


Penguins

by shadowsamurai



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV)
Genre: Drama, Friendship, Gen, Humor, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-08 04:32:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowsamurai/pseuds/shadowsamurai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yes. Penguins. I'm afraid you'll just have to read and find out why!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Penguins

**Author's Note:**

> A very random plot bunny that jumped into my head while watching a film. Strong friendship, not slash, though if that's your thing, you can read it that way. And I hope it's not too OOC.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, I'm just borrowing things for a while and I promise I'll put everything back exactly how I found it when I've finished. Well, almost exactly how I found it. ;)

SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH

It was, of course, sheer folly on the part of my good friend, the brilliant detective Sherlock Holmes. And of course, Holmes would never admit to being in the wrong. To him, there were no accidents, only calculated risks that sometimes backfired. But whatever happened, he would always find a solution. Not so this time.

It should have been simple, remarkably so, in fact. Holmes had been called to the far north of the British Isles to Scotland to help locate the usual; a great deal of money, some indiscreet letters, and a person. Upon the initial glance, even I could see the case was mundane at best, mind-numbingly boring at worst. But there had been a steady lack of anything for Holmes to do for a while now, and while the case may have been easy, the trip up to Scotland would at least get him out of Baker Street for a while. And, as always, he asked if I would accompany him.

*"Unless, of course, you have something else to do, Watson."*

I can still hear his voice as he said that to me. I can picture the expression on his face as clear as day. As if I had anything at all I would rather be doing than traversing the country with my good friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes. I readily agreed, Mrs Hudson packed us some lunch, and we were off. Living with the great detective taught me to be prepared for anything, and so I always had an overnight case half-packed for such emergencies. I am almost certain Holmes had deduced the reason for my efficiency, but it was the one point he indulged me on, and would simply congratulate me on my promptness.

It was late November as we made our way through the countryside and the further away from London we went, the more I could feel the cold. My leg suffered from cramp from sitting down for too long, then ached when I stood up and walked about. My shoulder had been troubling me in London; here in the wilderness, it would be a constant source of agony. Yet staying behind and refusing Holmes' request never entered my mind. Many people, including our delightful landlady, Mrs Hudson, have commented over the years on my friendship with Holmes, quite simply because very few understand it. Why, they ask, do I follow him so blindly when his line of work is so dangerous? My answer, when I choose to give it, is simple; on his own, Holmes is brilliant, but when we are together, we are virtually unstoppable. Not that I like to inflate my own ego, but Holmes has commented several times on how invaluable I have been over the years, whether it is as his lookout, his partner in crime, or simply his friend who sits and listens, and who is always amazed when he explains his deductions.

We stopped at a small inn on Rannoch Moor, a bleak, desolate place that did little to ward off the chill that had settled over me. Holmes, sensing my discomfort, fussed around me like an old mother hen. It may be unbelievable to some, but believe me, he was very adept at it. In fact, I would wager he could put Mrs Hudson to shame. Once he made sure I was comfortable and warm – he even pulled the blanket right up to my chin as I sat in front of the fire – he was off.

"I shan't be long, Watson," Holmes told me.

I glanced out of the window, then back at my friend. "Holmes, you cannot be serious! It's snowing."

"A most succinct observation, Doctor!" he replied, his tone laced with sarcasm and amusement. "I am well aware of the fact, Watson, and I shall be careful. But I fear if I do not do something this evening, our quarry will be lost to us forever."

"And you still maintain that three different people are involved?" I asked him sceptically. "To me it seems much more logical that the person who disappeared..."

"Montgomery," Holmes interjected.

I simply nodded and continued. "...The person who disappeared is also the one who stole the money and the letters."

Holmes smiled at me. "Ah, Watson, you are a treasure, but as usual, completely wrong." He tapped my knee once as he stood. "I shall endeavour to explain all when I return, my dear fellow," he promised me. "Assuming, of course, you are still awake."

"Do not worry about me falling asleep, Holmes," I replied. "Worry about me cooking."

"I cannot have my Boswell ill," he said, waving with his usual flourish as he left the room.

I could not help but chuckle and shake my head once alone. Though he hid it well, the caring side of Holmes was so rarely seen that even slight glances I treasured, just as I treasured his trust and his friendship. Sighing, I settled down into my chair, thankful for the heat the pervaded my limbs, dulling the ache, and outside, the snow began to fall quicker and more thickly.

SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH

I cannot say what awoke me. I only know that when I did open my eyes, I realised it was late. The fire had died to embers and it was as black as coal outside. At first I thought it was the cold that had roused me, but as I moved I realised I was still warm. Keeping myself still, I listened for any unusual sounds emanating from the building, but could hear nothing out of the ordinary. Stiffly, I stood up and stretched, and looked around the room.

Holmes had not returned.

That in itself was not unusual, but in a strange place, and with bad weather, it made me nervous. I debated about asking the innkeeper if Holmes had returned at all, but reasoned the good man and his wife were probably fast asleep by now. Keeping the blanket around my shoulders, I crept from my room and down the stairs to check if Holmes had fallen asleep by the fire in the main room, but it was deserted. Through the dim light of a single lantern almost spent, I searched everywhere for a note or something to indicate where Holmes had gone, or even if he had been back. There was nothing.

An uneasiness took a hold of my gut and a vague sense of nausea washed over me. It was after midnight and the weather outside seemed to be quite vicious; I could hear the wind howling around the building and the windows were covered with snow. I knew Holmes would not be so careless as to be caught outside on a night like that, and yet some instinct told me he was. I started to wonder if *that* was what woke me up; the inexplicable feeling that something was wrong. But my worry was soon overtaken by anger. What had Holmes been t*hinking*, venturing out in that sort of weather in the first place? It was sheer folly on his part, and if he had only waited until the morning, we could have journeyed together as usual. Now, however, I was torn between staying at the inn and waiting, or venturing out myself. *That* idea, I knew, was also unwise, but I could not stand to think of Holmes stuck somewhere, cold and possibly freezing to death. His level of endurance was extraordinary, but even he had a limit and I would have bet a great deal of money that the harsh Scottish winter would be testing that endurance at that very moment in time.

My decision was made, though in my heart I do not think there was ever any other choice really. Creeping back upstairs, I readied myself as best I could and then embarked on my suicidal journey. In all honesty, I did not know what I hoped to achieve; all I knew was that I had to try and find my good friend because I know that if the roles were reversed, Holmes would do the same for me, and more. That he had proved time and again, and I was not about to damage our friendship by simply staying in my room, even though I am certain Holmes would never have expected me to go out in such weather.

Not long after starting my journey, I realised the futility and stupidity of my self-appointed task. The snow had fallen so thickly that any footprints left by Holmes had been erased hours ago, and without a compass, I had no clue as to the direction I was heading. But the worst thing was that I had no idea which direction Holmes had gone in! I stopped quite suddenly as I remembered he had neglected to tell me precisely where he was going before he had left me earlier that same evening. I began to feel like a fool, and I turned with the intention of heading back to the inn...only to find I could not see it any more. Nor could I see my own footprints, save for an odd vague indentation in the snow. My sense of direction failed me and I found myself standing somewhere on Rannoch Moor completely lost. Cursing myself for being an idiot, I tried to calm myself and see if my instincts would guide me yet again. When I felt a 'pull' in a westerly direction, I obeyed it because anything was better than standing still.

I do not know how long I stumbled along, my leg paining me more than I would care to admit, yet still I carried on, my instinct telling me which way to turn. But when I saw the vague shape of a building in front of me, I will admit I did feel elated, and I rushed towards it as fast as my frozen limbs would allow. Unfortunately, just as I neared the small hut, my foot caught on something half buried in the snow and I tumbled, cursing rather loudly. With some difficulty I pushed myself to my feet and peered downwards in the gloom to try to ascertain what I had tripped over, but it was almost impossible. I was about to continue to the hut when something caught my eye. Black against the snow...

"Holmes!" I breathed the word partly in shock, partly in jubilation at having found my friend, but my joy was short lived. He was under a great deal of snow and his skin had taken on a most unhealthy blueish tinge. I knew instantly that I would not be able to wake him outside and so, with a great amount of reluctance, I hurried past him to the hut.

It was a simple affair, no doubt used by shepherds who wandered the moor with only their flocks for company, but it was dry and sheltered and that was the main thing. There was a small wood burner but no fuel for it, but there were three or four blankets folded and stacked in a corner. Propping the door open slightly, I made my way back to Holmes and started to dig him out. It took me at least three times as long to free him, with the wind blowing bitterly in my face all the time, and my hands were unprotected by gloves and so had frozen in relatively short order, but eventually, I was able to slip my hands under Holmes' arms. With a great deal of effort, and no small amount of pain, I began to drag him towards the hut.

Holmes was a man of many contradictions and surprises, not least of which was his weight and strength ratio to his build. He may have been slight – some would say thin to the point of being emaciated – but he was as strong as an ox and just as heavy, as I was now discovering. The short journey to the hut seemed to take forever, but finally we were inside and with a great sigh, I shut the door and wedged something behind it to stop it from blowing open in the night. Once I was satisfied it wouldn't, I turned my attention to my patient.

Holmes looked like an icicle, his hair frozen on his head, his eyelashes stiff as well, his body unmoving. With trembling fingers, I checked for a pulse and sent a quick prayer off as I felt one. It was weak, but he was alive. Now I was faced with the problem of reviving him and without anything to burn, that was going to be difficult, but my training in the army had taught me a few things, although being stationed in Afghanistan, I never had the chance to test all of the skills I had learnt. But one in particular came back to me now, though I could guess how Holmes would react when he awoke. I could only hope he would see the logic in my decision; I really did not want to incur the wrath of a boxer like him.

Laying two of the blankets on the floor, I removed my wet coat and hung it over a chair, then took my suit jacket off and rolled it up as a pillow. Then I turned my attention to Holmes. His shoes were the first things to come off, though I left his socks on despite them being soggy. I knew myself that there was nothing worse than cold feet and that as soon as he started to warm up, his socks would dry out. The next thing was to remove his coat and that was a job, I can tell you. Holmes was like a sack of potatoes and just as difficult to manoeuvre, but I finally managed to get him out of the garment and in doing so rolled him onto the blankets. I then took both our ties off and loosened his shirt and mine, and then, as an afterthought, I took off our waistcoats as well. I smiled slightly as I imagined Holmes' reaction when he woke up. My only hope was that the shock would not give him a heart attack. Satisfied I had done everything I could, I sat down beside him, pulled the other two blankets over us and then lay down, pulling Holmes' body towards me.

I knew I was treading in dangerous waters, but the thought of Holmes freezing to death made me somewhat desperate, and I knew that sharing body heat was the only way to save him. With his head on my chest, I rubbed his back gently, making my way to his shoulders and then down his arms. He felt like a frozen block of ice against my barely clothed skin and I could feel my own body temperature dropping as Holmes refused to warm up.

"Come on, old man, don't make me do this on my own," I said to him. "You have to help me, Holmes, or this was all for nothing, and I didn't wade out into the night for nothing, you know."

I could not say how long had passed, perhaps minutes, perhaps hours, but finally Holmes began to stir slightly. "Watson," he murmured, his voice hoarse, "I do hope this is your body I am using for a pillow."

I was so relieved to hear him speaking that I laughed. "Thank God you're alright!" I exclaimed.

"Would you care to explain to me why we are in such a...compromising position?" Already he sounded stronger and I marvelled at his resilience.

"You are one of the most intelligent people on the planet, Holmes, surely you can understand the logic behind this."

"Humour me," he replied. I sighed. "Please try to refrain from doing that, Watson. My neck objects to being tilted at such an angle."

"You were frozen through, Holmes," I told him patiently. "If the blood had rushed back to your heart, it could have killed you. By warming you up slowly using my own body heat, I made sure that your body returned to its normal temperature more slowly."

"I see."

I could tell by his tone that he was most uncomfortable with the intimate position we found ourselves in and if left to his own devices, he would have sprung to his feet and announced his return to the inn, something that, as a physician, I would not allow. Holmes needed to stay exactly where he was for the rest of the night. Well, perhaps not exactly as we both needed to sleep, but most definitely sharing the same covers.

"Since I risked life and limb to rescue you, perhaps you can tell me what was so urgent that you had to make a trip out on a night like this, and explain to me why you think three separate people are involved in this case instead of just Montgomery."

He grunted. "A most simple deduction, my dear fellow," he replied in that insufferable tone he used when he was about to explain something 'simple'; that is, to him. To everyone else, it was complicated, but if everything was simple, we would not need the famous and only consulting detective, now, would we?

Purposefully, I gave a deep long suffering sigh. "Then please explain it for those of us whose brains are not are well exercised as yours is."

Although Holmes did not acknowledge the compliment outwardly, I know that he had heard me and stored the information away. "I deduced from Montgomery's character that he was not a blackmailer, and that in fact, he was a frightened young man, which led me to question why he was frightened. Obviously the indiscreet letters came to mind and for a while I believed that the person who had the letters was the same person with the money."

"You think Montgomery was being blackmailed?" I asked.

Holmes shook his head, a curious gesture since it was still residing on my chest. "I *thought* he was being blackmailed, Watson. A whole world of difference. But then I did not understand why he would suddenly disappear. Murder was not an option as the blackmailer was taking great pains to find him."

"And the blackmailer is...?"

"Why, our esteemed client, Mr James Riverton."

I looked shocked. "Then why travel all the way to London to seek your services? And why pose as Montgomery's uncle?"

"Because he *is* the lad's uncle," Holmes explained rather patiently. "And his manner when he came to see us was completely genuine. He could not understand why his nephew had suddenly disappeared. No, Watson, Mr Riverton was not blackmailing his own nephew, but something caused young Montgomery to disappear so suddenly, and while I was certain Mr Riverton was not blackmailing his nephew, I was certain he was blackmailing someone else."

"Three people," I murmured. "Riverton, Montgomery and the victim. But how does Montgomery fit into all of this?"

Holmes chuckled, the sound reverberating not only through his body but mine as well. "Montgomery was obviously frightened of something and I assumed it was the content of the letters. He must have thought it was only a matter of time before his uncle realised his involvement and turned his wrath upon his nephew."

"I understand all that, Holmes, but if what you are saying is correct – and it usually is – then Riverton is a monster! What decent gentleman would blackmail a lady?"

Holmes chuckled once more. "I would agree with you, Watson, if the victim was indeed a lady."

"But if it's a man then..." I stopped speaking as the realisation hit me, then spluttered a while as I tried to find something else to say, but no words were forthcoming.

"Indeed, old man," Holmes remarked dryly. "I believe young Montgomery was involved with another local lad, who wrote him letters but never revealed Montgomery's name. Riverton found out and blackmailed the lad. Montgomery, fearing being discovered at any time, took the letters and fled. I believed that tonight, his lover would also leave and the two of them would make for the continent."

"In this weather?" I asked incredulously.

"Precisely. What better cover?"

"And you were hoping to see them before they left?" I asked, a bite in my tone.

Holmes sighed. "I merely wished to check that my theories were correct, Watson, though if we discover in the morning that a local lad has also disappeared, it would seem I was right."

I shook my head in despair. "Whatever am I going to do with you, Holmes? You're simply not safe to be let out on your own sometimes!"

Silence descended upon us as we listened to the wind howling around the building, and I idly wondered how we would explain our absence to the innkeeper in the morning, although knowing Holmes, he would simply pay for the rooms and leave. No explanation required, he would tell me. Perhaps in this instant it was better that way.

"Penguins," Holmes said suddenly, his voice somewhat muffled by my chest.

"Pardon?" I asked, unsure I had heard him correctly.

"Our behaviour is consistent with that of penguins," he replied matter-of-factly. "They huddle together so that individual body heat is shared amongst everyone...well, every penguin."

"Penguins," I repeated as solemnly as I could, although it was extremely difficult because despite our somewhat dire situation, I found Holmes' statement quite ridiculous.

My expression may have remained straight, but my voice must have belied my amusement because Holmes propped himself up on one elbow to glare at me. "It is no laughing matter, Watson," he said sternly. "How would you rather I explain the situation? That my good friend and trusted colleague spent the night groping me?"

It was simply too much and before I could stop myself, I started to chuckle rather loudly, and although I knew I should stay quiet, I just could not bring myself to. "If I was to spend the night groping you, old man, you would know about it, believe me."

Holmes' shocked expression made me laugh all the harder. "Really, Watson, you are...*intolerable!*" he exclaimed loudly. "You do realise that this information in the wrong hands could see us both hanged for a crime we are not guilty of?"

I sobered instantly and scowled up at my friend. I thought that law was absurd to start with, but for Holmes to use it against us...well, *that* was intolerable. I sat up abruptly, the sudden movement knocking my companion on his back.

"Really, Holmes, can you not simply enjoy a moment of levity when it comes along? I trudge all the way out here in the middle of the night and the middle of a snowstorm to rescue you and you have the audacity to wave the stupidity of the law in my face!" I said angrily. "The only way anyone would ever know what occurred here is if *you* told them, unless you are questioning my honour, and if that is the case, sir, you can jolly well stay here alone! And, if you have not forgotten already, you have just let two men escape who are 'guilty' of this so-called crime!"

I started to stand and gather my clothes. My state of undress was by no means indecent, but depending on one's definition of decent, the situation could easily be construed as something else entirely. However, I had no got very far before I felt strong fingers grasp my wrist, and when I turned, I was surprised to see Holmes' expression was one of anguish.

"Forgive me, Watson," he said quietly. "I...this is...difficult for me, to say the least, not only this...predicament we find ourselves in, but the fact that you ventured out in the dead of night, snowstorm raging all around you, across unfamiliar territory, all to find me." Holmes suddenly frowned. "You are the most foolish man I have ever met!"

I blinked at the rapid change of conversation. "Me?" I asked incredulously. "If you had not embarked on this...this...asinine trip in the first place, I would not have been compelled to follow you!"

"Compelled?" Holmes repeated in surprise.

I realised that I was now growing rapidly cold and of the two options left to me – getting dressed or clambering back under the covers with my companion – the latter was the best one to choose, but the one I least desired to, not for any particular reason except that I was irate with him.

"Do not seek to put the blame on me for this, Holmes," I scolded him. "The fact of the matter remains simple; if you had only waited until morning, none of this would have happened. For God's sake, man, you could have died!"

Our eyes locked for an unmeasurable amount of time and for those seconds, I saw a myriad of emotions flit across Holmes' face. As for myself, I was certain I was showing signs of anger, which was now fading thanks to the cold, and no small amount of worry. I dreaded to think what would have happened if I had *not* found the detective when I did.

"You are right, Watson," he admitted quietly, "As you usually are in such matters." I was stunned. "If thought I could make it back to the inn before the worst of the weather arrived." He shrugged slightly. "I was wrong, obviously. But I never dreamt you would come for me. I...it was...especially with your shoulder and your leg. I saw how you were limping when we exited the train and I realised then that I should never have asked you to accompany me. I know how the winters in London affect your old injuries; the winter here could kill you, let alone me." Holmes took a breath. "It was an act of complete selflessness on your part, Watson, and no matter how long I live, I will never forget it. It seems I am always surprised by such acts from you, though I fail to see why. You are the most selfless person I have ever met, and if I am to be completely honest, you make me disgusted with my selfish self."

Making an instant decision, I dropped the few clothes I was holding and gestured at him. "Move over." Once I was back in the relative warmth of our little cocoon, I spoke, having had time to form my thoughts into words, at least a little bit. "Yes, you are selfish at times, but you are also caring when you choose to be. I stay, Holmes, because I want to. I follow you because I want to. And tonight, I came for you because I wanted to. Believe me, old man, you rarely make me do anything that I do not wish to do. As for this...situation, I have already explained it was the only thing to do to make sure you didn't warm up too quickly, which would have killed you just as well as staying out in the freezing cold. And I know you don't deal well with emotions or physical closeness, but, well...tough, old man, you're going to have to for tonight."

There was a lengthy pause and all that could be heard was the sound of their breathing. "Has anyone told you that you can be a rather unpleasant man when you put your mind to it?" Holmes remarked dryly.

I refrained from looking at his face, for I knew from the tone of his voice that he was smiling. "I learnt from the best," I replied quickly.

Holmes barked a short laugh. "By heavens, Watson, what would I do without you, eh?"

"Let us hope you will never have to find out," I said. "How are you feeling now?"

"Much better." He paused. "Thank you, Watson, for..."

As his voice caught, I smiled, knowing he was watching me. "Think nothing of it, Holmes. We're friends, and that is what friends do. Now then, this may shock your sensitive nature but..."

"*My* sensitive nature?" he exclaimed.

I ignored him. "...If we are to survive the night without any external heat, we're going to have to sleep...erm, rather...closely."

"I believe the term you are looking for, Doctor, is spooning," Holmes said in his usual clinical tone. "And since I am the one who is, in your eyes, the patient, I assume you are going to suggest, or rather, insist that you spoon me, am I correct?"

"Yes."

"Watson, may I point out that it is more sensible for us to spoon the other way, given that I am so much taller than you?"

I couldn't reply, I was too busy trying not to laugh again. It didn't work and within seconds I was chortling loudly. Holmes opened his mouth to protest, but seemed to remember my earlier comment regarding levity and after a beat, he too began to chuckle, a most welcome sound from the world's greatest unofficial detective.

"Of all the absurd conversations," I said between laughs.

"Ah, but is it not true, Watson, that laughter cures all ills?" Holmes asked, still grinning.

"Indeed it is, my dear fellow. Now, let us get comfortable and try to catch some sleep. I fear the journey back to the inn tomorrow will not be an easy one."

"I fear you are not wrong."

To my great surprise, Holmes turned on his side, his back facing me, and with only a minuscule amount of hesitation, I curled up behind him, automatically draping my arm over his chest, as there was nothing else really to do with it, at least nothing that would see a comfortable night's sleep for me.

"Are you warm enough?" Holmes asked me.

"Indeed I am, old man. And you?"

"Snug as a bug in a rug, as the ridiculous saying goes."

I smiled. "Good night, Holmes."

"Good night, Watson," he replied, startling me by taking my hand in his and holding it close to his chest. I could feel his heart beating and it was a solid reassurance that my good friend really was alright. I had worried about him when I first found him, but now it seemed everything would be fine and I could not be happier. Still, there was just one thing left for me to say...

"Penguins, Holmes?" I asked for the final time.

Holmes nodded firmly once. "Penguins, Watson."

FIN


End file.
